


The Jade Sky

by Elisif



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 06:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1973166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisif/pseuds/Elisif
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Sauron set his eyes on Numenor, he was subduing a far greater power rising from the East of Middle Earth. Decades later, he has returned to claim his prize. While what will come to be known as the Last Alliance is approaching its triumph, another alliance is forming between the East and the West, with the heiresses of the Empire of Rhûn at its heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jade Sky

The horse’s hooves skirted yellow sand, the dust amid the patched grass underfoot rolled to pebbles by the winds of the parched and unending steppeland. Somewhere in the grey sky above, an eagle cried; a rabbit darted across the faint trail ahead of them, and Ciryon and Aratan felt themselves startled to be reminded there was life in this seemingly unending valley twice at once.

As the shadow of the eagle flitted overhead, Ciryon shot a weak smile at his elder brother. Aratan smiled back, wiped the sweat from his brow, reined his palfrey in and fumbled to pass Ciryon a wineskin tied to his own saddlebags. Ciryon took it, the aged deerskin soft against his rough fingers, the unformed liquid-bearing vessel bulging and pooling to spill over his hands as he attempted to gain a handhold and finally pour the warm wine past his lips.

Ahead of them, Míriel noticed that they had halted, pulled her black Rhûnish mount in a circle to face the brothers, drew her scarf down from her face.

“This is the end of the desolate stretch, I assure you,” she called to them. Gesturing, she continued:

“The Iron Hills are lush. This vale is ill-positioned, so that the hills retain the rain and the winds from the south sweep the valley dry... You see those two peaks ahead? Between those is the Gelkhan Pass, and beyond it is a pair of twin-lakes, where some branch of the court will certainly be settled at this time of year. Likely only minor officials, but—”

She readjusted her scarf and rode onwards. Ciryon passed the wineskin back to his brother, felt himself grinning at the prospect of coming across a true settlement. After nine days of freely camping under the stars in their sprint across this land— putting him so often in mind of the Anfauglith, the gaping dust in the books about the ancient days— even boiled meat and mare’s milk seemed luxuries, if the they were to be offered under a felted roof and eaten sitting upon the ground.

There had been no concessions to comfort: theirs was a mission of urgency, for Isildur had informed his second and third son that nothing, not even a summons from the Empress of Rhûn and ruler of the dwindling Empire of Echerigen, could justify them being absent from the preparations for war for longer than three months.

That had left them with a mere month to journey from Minas Tirith to the Iron Hills. Their pace had been breathtaking, and though they would not admit it, Isildur’s sons were bone-weary of the saddle, chaffed, blistered and envious of their guide to whom this was simply a way of life. Míriel, with her rough nomad’s hands and strings of Lothlorien-crafted pearls around her neck, was a rarity, a creature of myth so far as Ciryon was concerned: a Peredhel, a condition not in fact uncommon on this shore though Ciryon’s father and uncles spoke of Peredhel as beings of ancestry and lore. Born to the Rhûnish Avari Ambasadoress to Imladris and a mannish father from Lindon, she had spent her childhood flitting back and forth between the guarded abodes of the Elvish Havens in the West and the mobile courts of Empire on the steppes to which she was now directing them.

They were ascending now, climbing slowly upwards; eventually, Ciryon and Aratan could make out the narrow crag between the peaks, barely the width of a single horse, clipped and stony leading into promised lush valley beyond.

“Wait.”

Míriel paused; turning back to face the steppes, she leaned down out of her saddle, grasped a stalk of tough grass and drew her hand upwards so the tiny seeds were cupped in the gaps between her fingers. Holding her hand out to her side, she fumbled for her waterskin, removed the stopper, sloshed a measure of warmed milk over the seeds in her palm and then, with a broad sweep of her arm scattered them to the wind, murmuring a Rhûní incantation to the seemingly unending plain behind.

She dried her hand on her skirt, reined her mount in the right direction and rode onwards into the pass. Ciryon and Aratan followed, entered into the reverent silence of the crag, their horse barely squeezing between the sheer walls on either side. Immeasurably far above them, a single narrow shard of grey sky was visible; an eagle flitted across the sliver and its cries echoed endlessly down the silent walls of stone, causing them to pause in momentary terror of falling rocks, but the walls were smooth and unyielding, and they carried onwards.

At last, the walls parted; as Míriel had promised, Isildur’s sons found themselves facing a sharp descent into a valley of soft-summer green, strewn end to end with the white of cotton grass and yellow of summer flowers. Rimmed at its edge, were, as promised, a pair of sky-blue lakes, edged with the white clusters of nomad’s tents and smoke of innumerable campfires.

“Pass me the spy-glass,” said Míriel. Aratan handed it to her; she raised the amber-inlaid glass to her eye, set it down, and when she turned back to them, she was grinning.

“You’re in luck,” she said to them, “Those are the Empress’ banners flying over the camp. We’re there.”

...

Their arrival in camp caused a stir; Míriel was a recognised figure to the court and was swept into a long series of eager greetings as they rode through the camp, halters tugging black oxen and yaks out of their path, small children eyeing them with fingers in their mouths from behind their mother’s skirts, spindles and churns set temporarily aside on the grass to watch the unusual visitors pass by.

When the approached the tent of the Queen— recognisable for the raised platform on which it stood— a guard came for their horses and paused briefly to speak to Míriel, who then turned back to the brothers.

“We are free to enter and speak to the Empress,” she said.

_“Now?”_ Ciryon mouthed at his brother. Aratan shrugged. They had been informed that the Rhûní did not have the same notions of privacy and court protocol that folk in the West did, that any traveller was one of their own, owed a space by the fire and a bowl of soup if he wished it, welcome to walk into a stranger’s tent and claim it without prior warning— Míriel had shocked them with a tale of an assassin who had once been welcomed as a stranger into the tent of a Queen only to nearly run off with Echerigen’s young heir— but the concept of attending upon a ruler straight from the ride was still to them an utterly alien one.

They followed Míriel up the folding steps onto the platform, waited with baited breath as she lifted aside the heavy hanging felt of the door and entered into the tent of the Empress.

Their eyes were assailed by colour: after weeks of nought but dry yellow and dusted grey on the steppes, Ciryon felt his head spinning as he attempted to take in the sight of so many silks of vivid red, yellow and blue, entwined dragons and embossed vines of flowers, wall hangings and cushions richly embroidered in silver and gold. The floor was thick with cushions, the air thick with the scents of the burning dung on the fire, body heat in the tight space, incense, damp wool and lanolin from the felted walls.

Leaning against a mound of furs on the other side of the fire was the Empress. Her robe, sumptuously embroidered with dragons and peacocks, was a deep lapis blue; under it, she wore a far simpler Rhûní wool-coat, tufts of down from which emerged from beneath the neckline of her robe and between the thick strings of turquoise, silver, and coral around her neck which ran upwards into a peaked coral headdress positioned over top her silvered braids. Her right leg was rested on a stack of silken cushions and as she rubbed her swollen leg with aged, lined fingers, Ciryon could see a bundle of wilted herbs in her hand. She was no invalid, however: her face as they entered, bowed their heads, sat down with their legs tucked in close, took up as little space as possible as Míriel had instructed them, was one that projected absolute authority, as befitted the last surviving child of Echerigen, ruler of the grandest empire in history.

There was a moment of pained silence, neither party certain of who would speak first, when at last, the Empress clearly stated:

“ _Elen sila lumen omentilmo_.”

They had known that the Empire had adopted Quenya for trade purposes in the past, but could do little to hide their surprise at hearing it spoken by the Empress.

The Empress laughed, a short bark in the back of the throat as she reached for a silver wine-cup set at her side. Taking a long sip and looking over the brim, she said:

 “Do you of the Drowned Land truly think Echerigen left his heirs uneducated?”

It was clearly a rhetorical question: Ciryon watched as Aratan winced at the description “drowned land” while the Empress eased her leg against the footstool, called for her servants to prepare wine and soup for the travellers, before exchanging a long series of formalities with Míriel in their own tongue, who flitted occasional translations back to the two brothers. Fur blankets were laid across their legs, cushions behind their backs; the servants took their damp cloaks, laid silver bowls of hot mutton broth and cups of warmed wine in their hands.

It was then the Empress once more switched over to Quenya.

She wasted no time on small-talk or flattery. Turning to Aratan, she said:

“You are the one your father suggested should marry my niece, Queen Sokhortani?”

It had not been so simple; the proposed marriage had been deemed desirable by both sides, though Ciryon knew not which had first suggested it. But Aratan nodded and said:

“Yes, my Queen.”

The Empress set down her cup.

“And your people mean to march against the Dark One.”

 “Yes,” Aratan said, his voice growing ever more confident; politics had always been his forte, and he was well in his element here.  “An alliance between elves and men to defeat him well and true is being formed, but his power is great—“

He paused.

“And we desire too an alliance with the Empire of Echerigen in this endeavour.”

To their surprise, the Empress bluntly continued:

“With whatever little is left of it.”

Ciryon was shocked at her frankness; he knew well that the empire was crumbling, but that one at its helm would acknowledge it came as a surprise.

Aratan reached for his saddle-bag, withdrew an elongated, inlaid scroll-case. He drew the yellowed roll of parchment free, unfurled a map across the furs on his lap and prepared to demonstrate his point with military precision.

 “My Queen, I assure you that such an alliance would benefit Rhûn and the Empire greatly. The Dark Foe-“

The empress burst out laughing, well and truly this time. Her hands trembled, such that she had to set down her cup; finally, she said:

“You think that in Rhûn we have no quarrel with the Dark Lord?”

“No, my Queen—“

“Then I shall tell you of what the Dark Lord did to my brothers. _More wine_.”

She held out her cup for the serving girl to refill, settled back against the added wolfskins at her back.

 “Emperor Echerigen had five sons,” she said. “The oldest, Tolui, betrayed to the enemy, served the Dark One. This much I expect you know.”

Aratan nodded.

“Aye,” he said. “Even in the Drowned Land, we knew about— Tolwen.”

He stammered slightly at the Sindarised form of the name.

Over her cup, the Empress grimaced.

“Next came Bindeir and Taselan. When the Dark One turned upon Tolui, Tolui he offered them—his own brothers, his own kin— as hostages to spare his own hide and they were taken and held in the monster’s fortress.”

She drew a deep breath.

 “The last of Echerigen’s sons were Tseren and Atarn. They were- there is no word, I believe, in Quenya.” She hesitated. “Milk-twins,” she said, firmly, “Nursed by the same woman, whom my father appointed as an ambassador and when she died, he adopted Atarn. They were never apart those two, and they ruled the lands my Father gave to them in the far northwest of the world as one.”

She sighed.

“They were close too, to Bindeir and Taselan, unfortunately.

It came to pass that the Dark Lord set Bindeir and Taselan free as cursed thralls, and when they approached the lands of their younger brothers, dressed in rags, in the guise of having escaped from torment, Tseren and Atarn welcomed them and all who stood behind them, offered them wine and a hearth.”

The Empress set down her cup, her eyes hardening as she said:

“Bindeir and Taselan, or what they had become, destroyed those lands utterly, with no quarter given. Whole cities burned to ashes, whole peoples were taken captive to Mordor. Tseren and Altarn at last withdrew to their capital city, where they were besieged, and told that not even one infant would be spared its life when the city fell to the army of their cursed brothers. And so it was that when a craftsman appeared at the city gates and offered them trinkets of power, my brothers took them, and took them gladly.”

As if finishing a tale for a child, she looked down at her hands and quietly added:

“While he attempted to save the sons he could no longer trust, Echerigen left his daughter to rule the Empire. They and their daughters have ruled it ever since.

 But our power is fractured. Our people fight amongst themselves, with each year another sister passes, and our power dwindles. And— my brothers still live, thralls to the enemy. And we have had word from a trusted source that it will not be long ere they attempt to take back what is theirs. For their master.”

She paused, stared into the flames.

“You do understand, Prince Aratan,” she said, looking up. “That an alliance of marriage with an heiress of Echerigen will serve to her favour, not to yours excepting the provision of forces in your coming war? The husbands of the women who rule under Echerigen’s banner surrender their titles and lands to their wives, take upon themselves the title “Geren”, which is vassal, or servant of the empire. Should you marry Queen Sokhortani, as has been proposed, your position would be no different.”

Aratan swallowed hard. Setting down his cup, he said firmly:

“Not the title Emperor of all the World could be of greater worth to me than vengeance against the one who destroyed our home.”

The Empress’ lips were pressed, but Ciryon thought he detected a faint trace of admiration in her eyes.

“Are your brothers in like agreement?” said the Empress.

“I am,” said Ciryon, eager for an opportunity to speak and now eager to emulate his brother’s chivalry and utter sureness of tone.

Aratan laughed.

“Ciryon has spoken. Elendur is married. And Valandil,” a smile flickered across Aratan’s features, then hardened, “He is a mere boy, but I do not doubt he will think likewise when he learns of whence our people came.”

“Good,” said the Empress. “For while you rode here in the hope of securing one marriage alliance with Empire, I mean to offer you three.”

Ciryon very nearly dropped his cup; Aratan sat dumbfounded.

“Queen Sokhortani to Prince Aratan, her sister Batul who was deprived of her inheritance by her father’s kin to your brother,” she glanced at Ciryon, “and lastly, my own adopted daughter, Mandul, who is as yet a child to the last brother you spoke of.”

At that, he Queen called to her servants in Rhûní, who retrieved a map from a scroll-case of her own and laid it out in front of the brothers.

Ciryon could the broad strokes of pen with which the scribe had crossed over the lands that such an offer would cede to the control of the Empire. Aratan, Valandil, and he together controlled (or would one day control) a swathe of land stretching from Imladris and following an unbroken line of all land immediately to the east of the river Anduin and the northern border of Mordor. Putting his thoughts into words, the Empress said:

“If Sokhortani, Batul, and my niece are to rule these lands, then the only means by which my cursed thrall brothers will be able to retake Rhûn from their realms in the West will be in the far south, in Near Harad.”

A sense of finality echoed in the tent; both parties fell silent. The servants rolled the map away and fetched a cup of what smelled like medicine and further cushions for the empress. Ciryon and Aratan sat in silence while she was tended to, until at last she said:

“So it will be the might of the Empire of Echerigen and such aid as Queen Sokhortani can muster from the Avari in the East in your alliance against the Dark Lord, in return for Rhûn’s western border for my nieces.”

Aratan swallowed hard and raised his cup.

“Then we are in agreement,” he said. “Three marriages it shall be.”

“Very well,” said the Empress. “Military arrangements for our support in your alliance shall begin. Of course,” she said. “While Queen Sokhortani commands her own troops and will soon head south, her sister and cousin will not join your people until the war has ceased.”

“Very well then,” he said, switching to flowered court formality. “My brothers and I look forward to many happy years with your kinswomen. We wish for your sake was well as our own that this war will be swift, however unlikely that may be.”

The stars were shining; hundreds of miles to the south, the night gathered in waiting under a rising silver moon.

**Author's Note:**

> As much of the detail of this near-crossover is based on (relatively) obscure aspects of the history of the Mongol Empire, some clarification is probably needed.  
> Echerigen and his empire are clear equivalents to Genghis Khan and to his. The Nazgul origin story here draws some (very) loose parallels with the lives of Genghis Khan’s sons: they were collectively very poor rulers and untrustworthy, and as a result, Genghis Khan left the actual governance of his empire almost entirely in the hands of his daughters, making them collectively the most powerful group of women in history. Unusually, the marriages-of-state made by these women required the surrendering of the husband’s titles and lands to the wife; after Genghis Khan’s death, war ensued between his sons and daughters and the female-controlled empire fell apart within decades. Many of the names and world-building details here are drawn from the history of this period: the incident of the kidnapping of Echerigen’s heir that Ciryon describes actually befell Genghis Khan’s youngest son, Tolui. The assassin was subdued and the infant heir saved by his fourteen year old daughter, Altani. Most of the detail in this story and the original inspiration owe themselves to Jack Weatherford’s brilliant book The Secret History of the Mongol Queens.  
> This story was born of a combined fascination with the lives of these women, and a desire to fill in the vast gap that is the East of Middle-Earth. Should I choose to continue it, it should focus on the lives of Sokhortani, Batul, and Mandul in Imladris after their collective widowhood in the Disaster of Gladden Fields with the addition of Rhunish politics, though as yet, their story is very much up in the air.


End file.
